The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (123 page)

Blaze Company ruined us all
, she thought, then shook her head and amended it. 
The army did.  The Crimson and its leaders.

All the way to the top.

If only she'd known this months ago, she would have slapped some sense into Prince Kelturin while she was sleeping with him.

“You could surrender,” said Tanvolthene.  “Maybe the colonel will forgive—“  His words broke off muffledly and she gave Voorkei a thankful look.  He grinned back, his hand over the warder's mouth.

The cinder-pocked beams creaked below them, and she struggled to think up a plan.  Voorkei's wards would hold for a while but not if the walls crashed in on them, and the colonel's mages had seen them run in here; already she could sense mentalists casting their nets, trying to corral the soldiers and find her gestalt.  She slid an extra block over Tanvolthene's mind, just in case he started thinking hard at them.  He didn't have any other psychic connections but it was smart to be safe.

“Ve should find Shadow Folk.  Escafe.”

She looked to Presh, who shrugged.  He seemed none the worse for his ordeal, so maybe...  “No.  We wait a little longer.  We owe the company that much.”

She expected more objections, but instead she felt a hand touch her sleeve, then slide down to link fingers with hers.  She smiled sidelong at Presh, then at Voorkei as his much larger hand enclosed her other one and gave it a squeeze.

Together, they watched and waited.

*****

“This is curious,” said Colonel Wreth in a dry, not-at-all pleasant tone.  “I knew you were a problem, but I hadn't expected you to simply stand by while your comrades fought.”

Sarovy did not answer.  Ahorse, Wreth loomed over him, his Tasgard steed chewing at the bit and his cavalry sword gleaming with rune-light.  The howls and shrieks of the hunting ruengriin had faded down the side-streets as they pursued the locals, a few White Flame handlers jogging after them.  At Wreth's back, the main bulk of his escort remained: at least sixty soldiers, half of them mounted, split almost equally between Crimson and White Flame.

Plus a good handful of mages.

The Tasgard's clawed feet clicked on the cobblestones as Wreth nudged it closer.  His blade glided through the dark air almost playfully, the tip carving a half-circle around the side of Sarovy's face as he came within reach.  “Who were your attackers?” he prompted.

Sarovy stared straight ahead, not acknowledging the blade, not looking at the man.  Between his fingers, the hilt of the broken sword felt cold, like some former vitality had been stripped from it.

“Cultists,” he answered.  “Shadow and Trifold.  The lion-man was Gwydren Greymark.”

“Really.”  The flat of the blade brushed his cheek, and he strained not to react.  Wreth's leg was just a shade too far to stab if he lunged, and the horse might bite at him.  Tasgards tended to attack when startled.  “Cultists and heretics and Gwydren Greymark within reach, and yet you do nothing.”

Sarovy was silent.

“Enlightened Messenger!” called the colonel.  “My deepest apologies.  If I had known that I'd put your safety in the hands of such a coward—“

“Enough, colonel,” said the Messenger from close behind.  A moment later, he passed Sarovy to stand third in their triangle.  His white armor had receded beneath his robe, but his eyes still glowed faintly, even through his eyelids.  “By now, the captain's inaction is no surprise.”

A smile drew across Colonel Wreth's mouth like a razor gash, and he turned the edge of the sword to Sarovy's cheek.  “Then we might as well execute him, hm?”

“No.  We have not expended this effort simply to hack him up.  We proceed as before.”

“With three days left in Midwinter?  Not to mention the loss of their housing and my mages.  If the controllers among them have failed or turned, then I should kill the lot of them.“

“And waste our resources?”

Sarovy closed his eyes and let them bicker.  All the outcomes were the same.  His men would be converted or die, and he would be punished by the Light that had changed him.  His inability to obey his orders and his failure to follow his conscience had doomed them all.

What now held him back?

“Colonel, what is this?” came a voice from behind: Houndmaster Vrallek's, harsh and heavy.  Sarovy opened his eyes to see the runed blade still hovering before them but Colonel Wreth's attention focused past him, face creased with displeasure.

“We have already been through your captain's crimes,” said the colonel.  “Should I extend them to you?  Your service has not been exemplary.  If you insist on standing by him—“

“I think you have me wrong, sir.  We're not supporting the captain.”

“Good.”

“We're opposing you.”

Startled, Sarovy looked back to find the tattered remnants of Blaze Company arrayed behind him, bloodied and sooty and stern-faced, clutching scavenged swords and scorched shields.  The leading edge were all ruengriin and lancers, with bow-less archers scattered among them.  Further back, the lagalaina glowed vibrantly, the infantrymen in ranks around them.

Colonel Wreth barked a laugh, but there was an unsettled note in it.  “Opposing me!  You didn't oppose me when I declared your fates.  You didn't oppose me when I had your captain kill his subordinate.  Why bother with it now?  All it does is erase any commendations I might have given you.  Disappoint me further and I will have you decommissioned.”

“Yeah?  You and what army?”

Wreth gestured behind him, but Sarovy realized that with his ruengriin chasing the city-folk, his side was outnumbered.  A moment later, the colonel seemed to realize it too.  Snarling, he said, “Don't think you can menace us and live.  You're defenseless, and I've twenty times this number up at Old Crown.”

“But that's so far away.  And we're already condemned, right?”  Vrallek grinned, hideous and stitch-filled.  “How 'bout we see how long it takes me to eat you?”

Eyes afire, Colonel Wreth raised his blade to give a signal.

Then a shudder ran through him—and through Sarovy, and Cortine beside him, and Vrallek and the ruengriin beyond.  It chattered teeth and chilled skin, clenched muscle and scattered thoughts.

The light in Cortine's eyes went out.

“Messenger?” said Colonel Wreth, blade frozen in mid-gesture.

The priest did not answer, his head cocked as if listening, but in his expression Sarovy read fear.

*****

From her bubble of whispering shadow, Ardent watched the shiver pass through the gathered soldiers.  Not all of them experienced it, but the central knot—the officers, including the captain who wouldn't die—all did, then fell eerily still.

She raised her hand, thinking to give a signal but not sure what it should be, then realized that the eiyets were not attending to her.  Their beady little eyes had turned elsewhere, ignoring the tableau in the street and the other nodes on the umbral wall to stare, roughly, east.

Frowning, she snapped her fingers at them.  None turned.

Then, suddenly and en masse, they began to hiss.

Chapter 33 – Terminus

Situated near the rear of Field Marshal Rackmar's entourage, Weshker watched through a forest of shoulders and heads as the soldiers struggled with Cob.  Nerice's hand was no longer on his neck, but her venom filled his veins, fogging his thoughts; he wanted to run away but couldn't muster the will.

Then a darkness hit him, thicker and blacker than any night he had ever known.

He gasped by reflex and felt its presence flow into him, its chill driving to his core then trickling out to fill his limbs, his senses, his entire universe.  The invasion brought back the assault by the grey thing in camp, and he felt a spasm of wings within him, ready to fight.

'Another trap?'
said a dark, lyrical voice.

'A compromise.'
  Fainter, sharper and speaking quickly:
'He bears my mark, yes, but his patron T'okiel hates me as much as you do.  Besides, what other option do we have?  This is my last chance, Aesangat.'

'So you would make it mine as well?'

'Needs must.'

Weshker tried to speak, but his lungs were locked in terror.  It didn't hurt, though.  In fact, nothing hurt, which was unusual for his life at this point.

'This will just be another Ko Vrin.'

'I certainly hope not!'

Where had the world gone?  He felt suspended somehow—free-floating in a crowd of crows, encased by darkness.  And who were these voices?  What did they want?

'Look, I'm out of energy.  It's up to you now: fight or flight.  But whatever you do, don't meet his eyes.'

'Aekarlis—'

Then nothing.  Just the brooding darkness and the faint rustle of wings, and a strange pressure as if from some observer's gaze.

'Let me in,'
said the voice.

The crows were silent.  He realized they were waiting for him.

He couldn't think of a refusal—not even fear.  He'd fallen too far beyond that.  Whatever this was, all that mattered was that it wasn't the Light, wasn't of the Empire.

He nodded, and all of history opened itself before him.

Stars and shadows seen through the branches of a primal forest.  Teeth at his throat, blood between his lips.  A schism, a splintering, a continually scattering family tree...

Icy wind under wings.  Frosted ground beneath paws and hooves.  Wooden walls, the first of their kind.

Streaks of celestial fire falling from the sky.  The killings, the death-cries of spirit-children.  Bright foes, war and hordes and spires and masks.  Cities.  Strange faces over familiar bloodlines.

A shiver of invasion, shining insects crawling across the dense green skin of the most fertile lands.  A red Seal in the sky, a shattering tower, a wave.  A million eyes, a million sights and sounds and conflicts, white wings and thunderbolts, storm-lit caves and silver swords and black water black water rising rising rising—

Strong hands clamped on his shoulders and shook him free of the torrent.

He blinked and found himself among ruins, among strangers.  Water lapped gently against his ankles, and in the distance rose forested foothills capped by sharp white peaks: the Khaeleokiels.  His homeland.

Around him: a fox-faced woman with sand-colored fur, her blades the striated red obsidian of the far south.  A tall, grim man in stony armor, perhaps a Padrastan.  A black-haired woman in a woolen dress and goat-hide pullover coat, short spear in her hands.  A massive ogress.  A bird-person standing awkwardly on clawed feet, not crow-folk nor raptor-kin but small like a child, beady eyes bright.

And more.  So many more behind them, standing in shadowed ranks that filled the ruins and the rocky beach and reached all the way into the forest—perhaps further.  Perhaps enough to fill the world with their ghostly presence, their millennia of service.

He saw their histories, lived their lives of joy and havoc, fled their deaths.  Felt the world change beneath and around him as the ages streamed by, through darkness and light and all shades in between, until the rising tide of it made him buoyant.  Until the memories erased and rewrote him like etchings in sand: not a man, not a cast-off, a prisoner, a failure.

No.

The Guardian.

In this maelstrom of history, memory and knowledge, the hands on his shoulders held him steady—kept his head above water until the white city intruded once more.

Only as they faded did he realize they were Cob's.

*****

In his forest-green robe, Geraad Iskaen felt painfully conspicuous.  The pilgrims all looked at him askance, and the soldiers' white helms turned to follow him as he passed, their thoughts a low hum of suspicion.  But no one impeded him, and as he stepped out from the tunnel into the city proper, he felt a flutter of hope.  There, ahead, were others not dressed in white.  Perhaps he'd found the trouble.

As he quickened his pace, he thought wryly of the irony in running toward the fray.  He'd spent his whole life avoiding danger; his magic was bent toward foresight and protection.  Any difficult action he'd ever taken had been with the backing of his patron the count—or, more recently, from Enkhaelen.  To set forth in opposition to that one's command felt both unnatural and necessary.

He'd never considered himself a coward, just a pragmatist.  Now, for the first time, he thought he could possibly be a hero.

Around him, the crowd lagged back.  Reverence emanated from them, but also hunger and fatigue, pain, and a sort of glorying despair.  They'd traveled the White Road as the pilgrimage mandated; he'd come fresh from Enkhaelen's portal, nerves zinging with excitement.  It was no surprise that he outdistanced them, and started to gain on the oddballs ahead.

The orange robe stood out the most—its dark-skinned wearer obviously a fellow mage.  Beside her was a scruffy man in Riddish garb, less garish but just as out-of-place.  They and their White Flame escorts formed the rear-guard of a determined entourage, itself outpacing the other pilgrims as it aimed toward the Palace.

Geraad pushed himself into a jog, and felt the White Flame escorts' interest pique as they  noticed him.  None bore a weapon, nor did they falter from their stride, so he felt no fear as he fell in beside his fellow mage.

“Lady Magus,” he said, somewhat out of breath, “have you seen the Inquisitor Archmagus pass?”

She looked at him strangely.  “I don't know who that is.”  Though her appearance indicated Yezadran or Zhangish heritage, her accent was native northern, not much different from his own.

He frowned, puzzled.  He'd thought every mage knew Enkhaelen.  “Not very tall, about this high,” he indicated.  “Black hair with silver clips, white robe over black...”

“Oh, him.”  Her eyes narrowed.  “Right, that's one of his titles.  He's up ahead somewhere.”  She waved vaguely.

Geraad squinted forward.  The city stretched out in all directions, luminous against the night.  The pervasive glow made it difficult to pick out figures from a distance, but there did seem to be another clump of travelers far ahead.  It would mean a dash, but at least they weren't in the Palace yet.

The thought of that place made his stomach knot.  It loomed ahead like a mountain of light, but all he could remember was the music in its depths—the psychic paeans and screams.

“Thank you,” he told the woman, and broke away from her group.  He heard her call after him but didn't attend to it.  He had a mission.

At a rough lope, he passed the rest of them: some in white, some in armor, others scruffy and radiating unease.  It was only when he drew abreast of the leader that he realized they might be important—for there was the Crown Prince, looking just as bitterly angry as he remembered, and with a blade of red crystal slung across his back.

Heart in his throat, Geraad shied away.  He remembered the prince's grip on his neck, and his condemnation of any who would work with Enkhaelen.  A burst of surprise and interest radiated from the prince as he passed, but no alarm was raised; when he glanced back, the group still progressed at a steady pace, unaltered by his presence.

Which was good, because his sides had already begun to ache.  He cursed himself for being so sedentary.

The distance between the prince's group and Enkhaelen's seemed to stretch as he jogged.  They were very near the Palace now, past the point where the once-flat road began slanting upward as if leaving behind the petty concerns of the city.  He didn't understand their pace; mostly they moved smoothly but now and then they seemed to stop, causing turmoil on the road as the river of pilgrims tried to flow around them.

I can make it
, he thought. 
I can definitely catch up.

But it didn't take long before his body denied him.  A stitch formed in his left side, a cramp in his right leg, and it took all his mental discipline to slow rather than stop.  His breath came raggedly, mouth dry.  The glassy trickling of canal-water lured him toward the road's edge, promising relief.

There were benches at the verge, blocking the way.  Weary pilgrims rested in ones and twos, heads universally turned toward the Palace; passing them, he saw a common glaze in their eyes, a fixation.  Below, on the other side of the canal, stretched acres upon acres of artificial gardens—their plants, statues and trellises all made of the same fibrous white stuff.  Pilgrims passed dreamily through maze-like corridors or stood in small mobs to sing with the white-eyed priests.  Further away, fantastical buildings mounted toward the great walls, delicate and gravity-defiant in a way no masonry could be.

It overwhelmed him, not with reverence but fear.  Nothing here was real except the flowing water, and even that looked unnaturally pure—almost crystalline in its glowing course.  He'd barely glimpsed the swamp beyond these walls, but some animal part of him clamored to go back.  To escape this spider's trap.

No.  I have a rescue to carry out.

The thought prompted him into motion again.  His legs objected strenuously, but he knew ways to dampen the perception of pain; anything he did to himself now could be mended when this was over.  He couldn't say exactly when he'd gained this sense of loyalty toward Enkhaelen, but he could no longer deny it.  He wanted that man to live.

And so, fixated on the thought, he managed to push himself all the way to the rise in the road before he got grabbed.

No fighter, his first instinct was to scream, but a hand clamped over his mouth to stifle him.  He bit down on gloved fingers and heard a hiss, then a familiar voice said, “Pikes, Geraad, cut it out!”

Confused, he nevertheless relaxed, and as the hands drew away, he turned toward his captors.  “Oh!”

“That's it?” said Wydma with a smirk.  “No 'nice to see you'?  Or 'thanks for stopping me'?”

“Or 'sorry for biting you'?” Tarren added, shaking his injured hand.

Geraad stared at them.  Both their faces were swollen with growths, almost more than their hoods and scarves could conceal, and by the distorted shapes of their shoulders, he guessed their bodies were the same.  Yet their minds were peaceful—a discomfiting mirror of the pilgrims' reverence.

“Are you two all right?” he said.

Wydma shrugged and nudged him to walk with them.  “We're on schedule, we think.  The Maker is ahead.  He told us to stay back while he approached the enemy, so we're trying to be inconspicuous.”

“You're not helping,” said Tarren.  “Didn't he tell you to stay at base?”

Geraad grimaced.  “I couldn't.  I had to come.”

“He won't be happy.”

“I never meant to harm his cause.  I need to amend my error—to help.”

“Well, there's no turning back now,” said Wydma.  “You can guard our minds, if you like.  But once we get in there, you'd best stay away from us.  We don't want to taint you.”

Geraad blinked.  “I thought you weren't infectious.”

Tarren flashed him a grin through twisted lips.  “We weren't.  But soon the gloves come off.”

“You'll know when it happens,” said Wydma.  “Maybe the Maker wanted to spare you the sight.”

Looking at them, the closest friends he'd had in ages, Geraad felt his heart sink.  “No, I'll...  I'll bear witness.  It's only right.”

“Suit yourself,” said Tarren dryly.

Together, they began the climb.

*****

“Well, that was interesting,” said Lark as the green-robed man ran off.  At her side, Maevor snorted.

They hadn't spoken in a while—not since the Field Marshal came to get them.  Lark didn't really know what to say.  A part of her wanted to break away from him and rejoin her other friends, but Dasira and Fiora were near the head of the column, their eyes set forward on the Palace.  Not back toward the road where Lark would rather go.

Arik, in wolf-form, lagged closer to them, still using only three legs.  She wondered what had happened.

Were they really all going to walk into that place where death sat waiting?